


this is it, boys, this is war

by scribblscrabbl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5+1 Things, Crack, Feels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:06:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9218204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblscrabbl/pseuds/scribblscrabbl
Summary: Five times Sam messes with Dean's head, and one time Dean accepts it was for his own damn good.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be crack, and then I don't even know. Takes place towards the beginning of S3.

1.

"Sometimes I think about sucking your cock."

Dean's in the middle of brushing his teeth and rummaging through his pack when he hears it.

"Come again?" he chokes out, turning around to glance at Sam, so quick he nearly gives himself whiplash.

Sam's sitting on the edge of the bed with his forehead scrunched up in concentration, the exact same way he's done since he was a toddler and started pulling faces that looked way too adult for his age.

"Dude, help me look for my sock." He stands up to check under his bed, then Dean's. "It's the only pair I have left that isn't painted in supernatural mucus."

Dean's heart, having shot halfway to his throat, settles back down. He rubs at his chest a little with two fingers.

In his defense, he's had a lot on his mind. His expiration date, for one, stamped with the worst kiss he's ever had. The hundred or so demons on the loose. The nightmares, of Sammy and blood and death, that won't leave him be no matter how hard he hunts, and how long he spends staring at the curve of Sam's spine in the dark before drifting off to sleep.

So he chalks it up to a freaky hallucination and flings a pair of his clean socks at Sam even though they're two sizes too small.

"Yours are two sizes too small," Sam pouts, predictably.

"It's that or going barefoot. Ain't life a bitch," Dean says. Then he goes to the bathroom to finish brushing his teeth, more savagely than usual, thinking he might need to buy some fucking Ambien.

2.

A week goes by and it happens again.

They've just stepped inside a Motel 6 off Route 90, out of a shitstorm that soaked Dean through in under 10 seconds, when he hears Sam say, crystal clear, "I'd like to see you spread wet and dripping for me."

Dean almost slips and breaks his neck.

"You what now?" he wheezes, mostly, he reasons, from the chill.

"You're so wet you're dripping on me." Sam looks pointedly at the scant inch between them and the small waterfall flowing from Dean's sleeve onto Sam's leg.

Dean swallows down a scream and takes a ginger step to the left, lifting a hand to cover his eyes then sliding it down slowly to his mouth.

So maybe he's been a little territorial lately, more so than usual (he'd say clingy but he's not a goddamn woman). Outside those godforsaken Stanford years, they've always dogged each other. Closeness had turned into a reflex by the time they spent their second Christmas in a motel room eating Cracker Jacks from the vending machine and keeping each other warm, no Dad in sight. But lately Dean's felt a need eating him alive, more toxic than safe, to make sure Sam's solid and whole, whether it's fingers around his wrist or a foot hooked around his calf, maybe because Dean's all out of deals. (In truth, it runs both ways: the more time wears away, the smaller his world gets, until the only thing keeping him from blacking out is Sam, grounding him with those big hands and slow smile.)

He figures the hallucinations are the hilarious side effect of being fucked up beyond saving. Which would be less of a problem if he could walk to the counter without drawing attention to his raging hard-on.

Gluing his eyes to the floor, he tips his head and says to Sam, "After you."

3.

Five days later, they're grabbing chow at a truck stop outside Akron. The local paper's lying next to Sam's elbow, obits on top. Dean's looking out the window, distracted and worn out after failing the last 500 miles to shake the feeling that Death's developed a special taste for Sam, having had him once and lost him.

Which is when he hears, out of the fucking blue, "I'm gonna have you begging me to let you come."

He jerks around and bashes a knee against the underside of the table. Sam's staring at him with mild concern.

"What did you just say to me?" he demands, rubbing at his knee.

"I said, you're gonna be begging me to let you have some."

Dean looks down and sees the pie – no, the peach cobbler Sam insists is pie, which is the kind of bullshit that makes him think Sam was adopted and their parents just never had the heart to tell them.

"I swear to God you – " Then he stops short, eyes narrowing, and watches Sam watch him. His brother's poker face is a work of art, Dean'll give him that. Even when Sam's lying through his teeth he makes you think there's truth under there somewhere, like buried treasure, and all you gotta to do is go digging for it. That's always been the difference between them. Scratch off Dean's charm and there's nothing worthwhile underneath, but in Sam, there's a sincerity that runs down to his bones. Which is all to say that Dean's got a pretty good picture of what's going on. The little bitch is pranking him. With the Mother of all pranks no less. And maybe Sam needs this, needs to scramble for something normal any way he can. But that's no goddamn excuse for giving Dean three heart attacks in as many weeks and the worst case of blue balls since Marianne in the 10th grade with her cherry stem knotting and her chastity ring.

"You okay, man? If you're getting sick, you better take something now before I end up spending a better part of a week nursing your ass back to health."

Sam's digging into the cobbler now, tongue wrapping around his fork like a goddamn stripper around her pole, and Dean's this fucking close to yanking Sam in by the neck and sticking his tongue in Sam's mouth, just to teach him what it means to go big or go home.

In the end, he stays put and snaps, "Just finish your stupid cobbler already."

4.

Three days after that he remembers how much he hates motherfucking werewolves.

This time it's a pair of them, both hellbent on turning Dean into homemade spaghetti. It means he and Sam don't even make it through the door of their motel room before Sam's fussing over him, stripping his shirt off and wrapping his hand around a bottle of whiskey he doesn't remember buying, easing him down onto the edge of the bed, hands hot, but not as hot as the claw marks down his chest.

So it's through the thick haze of pain and cheap liquor that he hears: "I want to fuck you so deep you feel me for days."

He's too busy trying to stay upright to feel shock, but not so busy that the words don't shoot straight to his dick.

The arousal alongside the pain make him gasp.

"Say that again?" he finally gets out, voice sounding wrecked.

Sam's head is bowed, fingers trained and steady as they stitch him up, trembling only when they stop to press down lightly on unbroken skin.

"They cut you so deep you'll feel it for days," Sam murmurs. "Now hold still."

Dean closes his eyes. He thinks about knocking Sam's hands away and shaking the truth out of him. He thinks it's time to put a stop to this. Because what he knows he heard didn't sound anything like a prank; it sounded like a confession – low and fierce and _consuming_ – and Dean can just see the train wreck playing out, razing that last wall between them that's been standing all this time for their own damn good.

Instead, he stays perfectly still, docile under Sam's hands, not trusting himself to do the right thing, not with this much whiskey in his blood and Sam touching him like he should feel safe here, of all places.

"What is this, open heart surgery? Just stitch me up already."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

5.

Sam was right. It’s been two days and Dean can still feel those claws in his skin, shredding muscle and tendon and everything that’s a bitch to heal. Which means he’s grouchy as hell and a good deal whinier than usual, until Sam steals his keys (Dean starts thinking about those long fingers sliding into tight places before he shuts that down quick) and drives them in the exact opposite direction they're supposed to be going.

When they get off the highway an hour later and turn into a wide gravel driveway, Dean peers out the window.

"J.J.'s Smokehouse? You kidnapped me to take me to a barbecue joint?"

"You're free to leave any time." Sam kills the engine then hands the keys over, smile dimpled and devious. "But I'd advise you to stay."

Dean swallows then rolls his eyes, climbing out of the car.

"You've been here before? Doesn't look like there's wifi or a library for miles." He glances at Sam who gives him the finger then shrugs.

"Took a lot of road trips in college." Sam leaves it at that, and Dean pretends it doesn't hurt, doesn't burn when he thinks about Sam sitting in someone else's car, cranking up someone else's radio, tipping his head back looking beautifully content, and beautiful.

Ten minutes later, the only thing Dean's thinking about is the plate of ribs in front of him, meat sliding off the bone and melting in his mouth, making him moan like an overeager porn star.

And still he hears it when Sam says from across the table, "You know I'll be the best you've ever had."

Dean looks up and nearly inhales barbecue down his windpipe.

Sam's watching him, left hand resting on the table, body still and eyes intent, so dark his pupils look blown. Watching him like the Big Bad Wolf preying on Little Red Riding Hood, and Dean only manages to say, "Sammy," before he has to swallow down something that feels like a whimper chasing his brother's name.

"Dean?" He can see amusement now, sliding in next to the heat. "You know this is the best you've ever had. Admit it."

Then Sam leans in without warning, left hand coming up and thumb rubbing firmly at the corner of Dean's mouth.

"You still eat like a fucking five year old," he says, sounding so damn _fond_ Dean feels actual pain shooting through his chest.

And in that moment he forgets all the reasons why he's been fighting this, swimming against the current when he's only been losing ground. In that moment he's sick and frankly goddamn tired of making everything out to be so complicated when there's something so simple at the heart of it: this is Sam. Jesus, _Sam_. Sam who puts up with his bullshit, trusts him with his life, sees right through him. It's Sam who knows him, and Sam he's let in, farther than anyone, so far he could cradle Dean's heart with one huge hand and squeeze the life out of it if that was what he wanted. It's Sam who made him think he wasn't alone then, when he felt more like a soldier than a son, and now, as he waits for Hell. The world dragged them to where they are now, and as far as Dean's concerned, the world can suck it up while he finally reaches out and takes something for himself.

So he looks at Sam and says, "I can think of something that might be able to top this."

+

The hour-long drive back, dark and quiet, wears on Dean and cracks him open, wide enough for the doubt to creep in. By the time they walk through the door, he's remembering all those reasons. He only has three months left. He'd win a trophy for being the world's most selfish son of a bitch. It's fucked up no matter how he slices it. What he wants, still, more than anything, is to give Sam that chance to be normal. To be boring and _safe_ , live to an old age, and spend more time laughing than grieving.

When Dean finally turns around to face Sam, he's standing a room's length away, body loose but eyes still dark, still looking at Dean like he's starving.

"Come here," he says, barely loud enough to be heard, and Dean's not sure if it's an order or a plea, but it's enough. It snaps the binds tying Dean's wrists behind his back with a deft little flick, and Dean's across the room in two strides, grabbing a fistful of Sam's shirt.

"Sam," he says, except it gets stuck halfway up his throat so he tries again. "Sammy."

"Dean." Sam mimics a brick wall, solid and damn near immovable, but he smiles like he knows, like he's known all his life and he's been waiting with the patience of a saint for Dean to catch up. "Do me a favor and stop thinking."

Dean does what he's told, letting the tension in his shoulders bleed out. Then he's pressing his mouth against Sam's. Only, it's all wrong. He's completely thrown by the height difference, the fucking _size_ of Sam, his heat, his scent, reassuring and terrifying, and for a second Dean panics, trying to remember how to get to first base and drawing a blank.

"Dude, you are such a girl," Sam murmurs against his mouth, and he's just about to defend his honor with a _fuck you_ when Sam spins them around, shoves him against the wall, and kisses him, slow and deep and dirty. Sam's huge hands cup his face and tip it up so he takes Sam even deeper, and he lets Sam do what he wants, whatever he wants, and just hangs on for dear life.

Until now Dean's been pretty sure his brother's as vanilla as they come, but Jesus. The things Sam's tongue is doing to his mouth make him wonder if Sam isn't a kinky son of a bitch, and did a lot less studying at Stanford than he's let on. Dean would call him out on it, except his brain is dribbling out of his skull and he's sure first base has never gotten him so hard in his life.

When Sam finally pulls away, allowing them an inch of breathing room, he laps at Dean's swollen mouth and says, "I'm the only one who gets to have you," body pinning Dean down from chest to thighs to make his point.

Dean still has his eyes shut tight but he can hear the toe-curling need, and the fear staining it. Feels it send tremors through him and break his heart. He'd come up with a reply that's worth something for a change, something Sam deserves, but he doesn't know how; he's lousy with words, and even worse with feelings.

So he just says, "Now who's the one thinking too hard," and pushes his mouth rough against Sam's again, because this language he gets. The wet, hot slide, the suction, the sounds, the flare of pain when Sam drags his teeth through Dean's bottom lip, the long fingers slipping –

"Jesus Christ, Sammy!" he yelps, then lets his head thump back against the wall, cursing like a sailor on a sinking ship as Sam gets one huge hand around his dick without so much as a warning. And Dean would be coming, coming with no end in sight, if Sam didn't get off on being a controlling son of a bitch. "I need – "

It fucking _hurts_ , and he clamps his teeth down on a sob, thinking he's gonna get his payback and then some, provided that Sam doesn't break him sometime between now and then.

"It's okay, I've got you," Sam soothes, thumb dragging across Dean's cheekbone. "Look at me. Look at me, Dean. It'll be okay. I promise."

Dean looks, and he sees Sam. Sam, who's always had too much faith rather than too little, who was never built for this life, not like Dean, but survives as best he can. And Dean's not sure what's killing him more: that he'd been terrified he brought back something else, or that he ever doubted he could take one look and _know_.

"I want – " he tries, keeping his eyes on Sam even though it makes him feel cracked open in a million places, "I want – god _damn_ it, I want – please. _Sammy_."

He pushes up into Sam's hand, pawing at Sam's shirt and belt and shaking all over.

"I know. I know," Sam says, sounding for the first time like he's keeping it together by the skin of his teeth.

Then he's moving, moving _away_ from Dean like he's gonna leave Dean there with his dick hanging out, and Dean's ready to cut a bitch until he sees Sam free his own cock, and Jesus – it's big, just like the rest of him, fully hard, leaking, and fucking beautiful. Dean _wants_ , so bad that dropping to his knees feels like instinct. Only, Sam is faster. Sam crowds in again, sliding their cocks together before wrapping one rough hand easily around them both, and Dean's done for.

"Oh my god, you're trying to kill me," he chokes out, hips jerking, so hard he'd buck Sam off if he wasn't such a freak of nature. Sam's keeping him in place without breaking a sweat, fisting them at a pace just this side of brutal, and he doesn't think he's gonna survive this but it's a sweeter end than he could've ever hoped for.

"God, you are so damn beautiful," is all Sam says, low and pained, and then he's throwing his head back as he comes.

There's a drawn-out second where Dean drinks in the long, smooth line of Sam's throat, bared and begging to be marked, before he follows Sam, orgasm ripping through him like a typhoon that lets him resurface only when he thinks he's just about drowned.

Sam drops his head down against the curve of Dean's neck, mouthing at his collarbone, and for a good while all Dean can do is breathe.

When he's mostly sure he can speak without sounding like a wreck, he says, "So. All those things you were telling me, about – did you, I mean, you weren't – "

Sam lifts his head up to look at Dean, just watching him for a minute, smiling, eyes bright and hot, while Dean pretends he's not blushing like a goddamn virgin.

And even though Dean already knows it, has counted on it every damn day of his life, Sam tells him, "I never say things I don't mean."


End file.
